The Rose Point Manor
by BookishTea
Summary: A young woman struggling in an unjust society takes a break from the theatrics of pretending to be her male counterpart, Mark Hooper, and decides to relax at the quiet but foreboding Rose Point Manor. There she comes to a realization that something far more sinister lurks there than at her morgue back home. Victorian AU
1. Home Is Where The Ghosts Are

**Author's Note: Hello! Claire here. I just want to thank those that showed such interest in this concept for a fic, and for Roz and Danielle who both edited every sentence and chapter you'll read. If any of you are interested in checking their stuff, you can search the provided links to their accounts. Thanks. xx**

 **/users/Roz1013/pseuds/Roz1013**

 **/users/stbartsmolly/pseuds/stbartsmolly**

 **-BookishTea**

* * *

The sky was a deep and angry shade of grey, a backdrop for the lightning that flashed, and soon a large clap of thunder roared above. It was impossible to avoid the sound, which explained the bunched set of shoulders belonging to a lone figure that made their way to the front door of a looming building. There was no doubt it was once beautiful, with craftsmanship woven into the dark bricks that made up the architectural masterpiece. Now with each flash of lightning, the crumbling facade revealed that the building was no longer in its prime, instead it stood out like an inescapable shadow.

And yet the inside of the dwelling was not much better, only revealed when the heavy oak door was knocked upon. It took a few moments, but eventually the sound of locks being undone and clicking was heard. The door was swung open and sheer darkness, much like a gaping void, outlined a stoic man in the door frame.

"Yes?"

The visitor squinted against the rain pelleting their face, "Is this Rose Point Manor?"

"It is."

They paused, a terrible gust of wind lunged at their back, ignoring the thick wool coat and many layers of clothing. It made talking almost impossible through the chattering of teeth, but still they managed.

"I-I'm M. Hooper, I e-exchanged letters with the caretaker?" Anxiously, Hooper removed a series of letters that had been tucked in the coat's pocket, and despite the protection, already the rain was causing the papers to become illegible. Still, Hooper offered them with a shaking hand.

The stoic man refused to even touch the documents, only glanced at them with a raised brow before he stepped back.

Before Hooper could voice any inquiry, the man was soon returned with a lantern in hand. It was raised to Hooper's face, casting an orangish glow as it made Hooper's eyes involuntarily close. After a few painful seconds the blinding fixture was finally moved back and Hooper was free to see once more.

Seemingly satisfied with what he saw, the man made way for the manor's guest, allowing the short form to scurry inside to get away from the night's frigid weather.

"Thank you," Hooper mumbled, ever thankful to be somewhere warm and dry for the time being.

The man said nothing, only used the lantern to guide himself to a wall where a knob resided. He twisted it, and the Rose Point Manor came to life.

Lights that lined the stretch of walls flickered on, breathing into the building as if it were morning. M. Hooper was aware, being in the medical field, that there was constantly new inventions popping up everyday. But such creations were still met with an audible gasp of awe.

"Wonderful!"

"Yes, it is a useful little thing," The man offered with a humorless smile; he clasped his hands together before him, "The master of the house is away, so I'll be in his stead. My name is Mr. Lancret, my duties are to make such you enjoy your stay, Dr. Hooper."

"I'm not one for formalities, Mr. Lancret. Mark would be fine."

Mr. Lancret stiffened, "Such customs are necessary to keep society in order, Dr. Hooper. Lest we turn into _animals_."

Mark flushed with embarrassment at the cold tone, staring at his muddy shoes instead of meeting the other's gaze. The two found themselves surrounded by silence as they travelled down the long corridors. The lights made sure that the floor was visible, but did not alleviate the feeling of being suffocated.

The portraits on the walls seemed to leer at Mark, their eyes following his movements. His spine crawled with the thought, and he hurried his pace to stay closer to the manor's caretaker. If Mr. Lancret noticed, he made no comment on the action.

Eventually they ventured up a grand staircase, which Hooper couldn't fully appreciate visually, but he liked to believe he could estimate its beauty just from the smoothness of the wooden banister. This led them to even more hallways filled with rooms.

 _Like a rat in a maze_ , Mark thought bitterly.

They stopped in front of a door which appeared to be painted darker than the rest.

"This will be your room for the night. Your early arrival didn't give us adequate time to prepare a proper room, so you'll be using the Master's for the time being."

Mark nodded and accepted the lantern Mr. Lancret still carried, he almost dropped it from its surprising heaviness, but he held it long enough for the other man to remove his set of keys from his coat pocket and unlock the door. The metal of the key glinted against the shadows, catching Mark's eye.

 _I'm sure some birds would fancy something so shiny_ , Mark thought wistfully.

The door creaked as it opened up, adding to the stillness of the house. Mark shifted his weight, somehow nervous of what lay ahead.

Mr. Lancret grabbed the lantern from Mark's hands and strolled inside, bringing Mark's safety with him. This house was strange, filled with tension that made no promises of good intent.

Just remembering the paintings and their eyes had Mark chasing after the man and into the room.

* * *

As Mark entered the room, he took note that the lantern was placed on a table as Mr. Lancret roused the flames in the fireplace.

The crackling and spitting comforted Mark. His body ached and slumped with exhaustion. The trip had been a long and arduous , and he was eager to finally get some rest.

He stared longingly at the bed at the opposite side of the room, but he didn't advance towards it. Mr. Lancret instilled a harsh reality that one's appearance meant more than comfort, which held Mark at bay.

Mr. Lancret grunted as he righted himself from his crouched position, hand automatically placed on the muscles of his lower back as he stood up straight. The poker was placed in its rightful place, among the rest of the iron tools.

He turned back to the manor's guest, hands clasped together before him, "The bed has been made already, and there are spare clothing in the dresser's middle drawers for tonight and tomorrow. Though I'm sure by that time your luggage will manage to show up, the storm can't delay it forever. If that's everything, Dr. Hooper." He made his way to the door, grabbing the lantern as he went.

"Sir!" Mark called, causing the elderly man to hesitate with the doorknob in his grip.

"Yes?"

Mark cleared his throat, "May I perhaps have a key to the manor? I wouldn't want to constantly bother you over opening every single door I come across."

"Usually that would have been a splendid idea..." Mr. Lancret slowly answered, his brows knitted together, "though I'm sure the Master would prefer certain doors to remain locked."

Mark smiled in a way that he hoped was relaxing, "I hope you don't see me a thief, Mr. Lancret."

It was silent as his words rang through the room, and as the seconds ticked by, Mark wondered if it would be enough. His worries seemed pointless, as Mr. Lancret gave a single and curt nod.

"Not at all, Dr. Hooper." The door began to slowly shut, "It'd be more for your own protection. Good night."

The glow from the lantern painted the old man in a ghoulish light, as his final words had a shiver running up Mark's spine. As the door came to a shut, Mark waited until the footsteps disappeared from the door and down the hallway until they eventually faded.

He quickly crossed the room to the door, turning the doorknob until the lock engaged and then slid the bolt at the top into place. In any other instance it would appear to be an over excessive amount of protection, but at that precise moment, it felt like too little to Mark. He couldn't take the chance of someone coming into his room while he slept, and discovering his true identity.

Mark sighed and reached for his hair, hands gentle as they slid under the chestnut locks and prodded until fingers found wads of spirit gum. This was the tricky part, trying to separate the wig without removing clumps of Hooper's natural hair. With a few whispered curses, eventually the tiresome endeavour was ended and the wig was placed on the dresser. The sideburns and the accursed mustache next, the latter left an angry red streak across the upper lip.

The clothing was the worst, but the joy of removing the sodden garments surpassed the dislike. The coat, folded, was placed on the fireplace mantle so it could be dried. The rest of Hooper's attire was stripped down, until only the undergarments remained. The chest bindings, which Hooper despised even greater than the foul weather howling outside, was slowly unwrapped.

A great exhale was released, as if finally one was able to breathe. Eyes shut in bliss, small hands expertly reached up to unpin the long locks of hair attached to Hooper's head, and to let them fall.

Molly Hooper opened her eyes, and smiled weakly. She tip toed around the clothing pooled on the floor, and wandered over to the dresser. The heat from the fire was on her back, easing the chill from her body as she searched for some clothing to wear for the night.

Near the back she found what she sought. Withdrawing it, she let it unravel as she held it before her. The cream coloured nightshirt was at least three sizes bigger than her own, but Mr. Lancret did believe his guest was a man. Molly's smile crumbled away at the thought. She was so tired of pretending to be something she wasn't, just to perform the duties she loved.

She uttered a soft sigh as she slipped the shirt over her head, covering her once bare knickers as the article ended just below her knees.

After giving the door once last glance to make sure it was indeed locked, Molly crept into bed, humming with delight at the mattress that eagerly embraced her sore body.

She had spent many a nights in a carriage, resorting to sleeping in uncomfortable positions to shorten the distance between her and this house. All those sleepless nights and twisted muscles had been worth it for this, a warm and soft bed to have for the night.

The fire cracked loudly, overseeing the tired woman slipping into a welcome slumber.


	2. A Skip Backwards

**Knock knock**

Sunlight streamed in through the room's windows, brushing past the heavy curtains as if they were of no importance. There they bathed everything inside in golden hues, reminiscent of the day's pale yellow morning sky.

Entangled in silken sheets, Molly rolled over, left hand subconsciously clutching the thin material. An easy sigh escaped her lips, nestling the room just as she nestled the pillow under her head.

 **Knock knock**

Her eyelids twitched with the sound, and her once peaceful expression morphed into one of vexation. She willed the silence to continue once more undisturbed, but the same startling noise of knuckles upon wood fluttered about.

 **Knock knock knock**

This time, an equally troubling voice accompanied it.

"Dr. Hooper? It is morning, sir."

Molly groaned lowly before she begun to answer Mr. Lancret, "Thank y-" She jolted, eyes flying open in panic. The natural tone of her voice was sweet and feminine, praying that the caretaker didn't hear her, she tried again. This time the deepest pitch she could do quickly overtook the sentence, "Thank you, Mr. Lancret. I'll be dressed in a minute."

"As you wish; breakfast is already set in the dining room."

Much like vicious hounds were snapping at her heels, Molly hurried to peel the blankets and its sheets off of her and dress. As fast as she could, she removed her night shirt and picked up her chest bindings off of the floor, carefully wrapping it around her torso.

After it was secured without fear of slipping, her sockless feet nudged yesterday's clothing out of the way as she went to the dresser, already searching for the clothing Mr. Lancret previously mentioned.

The garments inside were of last season's fashion, but it was of no importance to her. She was staying in an old house in the middle of the country, and Molly didn't think Mr. Lancret cared much, and in all honestly Molly was just happy they were clean.

Finally dressed, Molly walked to the door and slid the bolt back. She paused, turning back to the room.

Dark wood furnished the bedroom, with the furniture engraved with twisting vines. The wallpaper's deep wine red colours were emphasized by the cherry timber of the large bookshelves that covered the walls. The bedding and curtains were black, casting the room in a permanent sense of despondency.

She moved back to where her clothes rested on the bare floorboards beside the bed. She picked them up, folding and setting them aside on a dresser, lest the spirit of her deceased grandmother haunt her for being unorganized. Mumbling to herself, she began to don the mask of Mark Hooper. Something that she was caught being hateful or appreciative towards, as it made the switch from being an invisible spinster to a confident doctor that was recognized amongst her peers. It was as much as a blessings as a curse, a rose with sharp daggers for thorns.

Molly gathered her hair up, curling the locks in a braid and pinning it back to her head. Cursing under her breath, she fastened her wig and then stuck her sideburns and moustache into place. Glancing to the mirror hanging above the fireplace mantle, she nodded at the young man staring back at her. Right now her main priority was to fill her belly with food.

* * *

The door shut softly behind him, sealing Mark's fate as he peered down the hallway leading either left or right.

 _Now, which way to the staircase?_ Mark pondered with a frown. He tried to recall from last night's arrival, but the directions were blurry with the darkness turning the manor into an endless labyrinth. Praying that he was heading in the right direction, Mark took a chance and headed left.

Everything was quiet as his shoes padded against the floorboards, cementing the idea that he was alone as he travelled down the corridor. As he went around a bend he caught sight of a door cracked open, and curiosity had Mark stumbling towards it.

He only lightly pressed his hand against the wood but it swung open easily, and compelled by a force larger than himself, he looked inside.

A bedroom unlike his own, this chamber was filled with windows filtering in brilliant light. The walls were painted a pearl white, with a small bed tucked against the far corner, covered by a blanket made in a soft shade of violet. The only other furniture was a dresser and a vanity, both dwarfed by the open space of the room. Resting on the vanity was a perfume bottle and a petite ivory hairbrush adorned in flowers that Mark had never come across before, at least not in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.

It was as if this room once belonged to a young child, a child that preferred little to no belongings and was considerably more tidy than him.

Mark quietly stepped inside and pressed a finger to the surface of the vanity. Immediately after he inspected his fingertip and the collection of dust that accumulated there; he frowned, glancing over the room once more before a sound reached his ears.

"Shit," he whispered, and immediately regretted it. Such a coarse word sounded too vile in a room as sweet and childlike as this one, and yet he had no time to dwell on it, not with the sound coming closer with each creaking of the floorboards.

A chill raced along his spine as he hurried to enter the hallway once more, closing the door behind him. And as soon as he did so, the hallway became quiet once more. Praying that Mr. Lancret nor anyone else had caught him looking in places where he ought not to, Mark crept to the bend in the hallway and peered around.

 _No one is there_ , Mark thought with an audible sigh of relief. Despite this Mark was doused in goosebumps, couldn't escape the feeling of being watched as he headed back in the direction where his room was.

Just as he came across the familiar door painted darker than the rest, Mr. Lancret came strolling down Mark's hallway and approached him with an annoyed expression.

"Sir, your breakfast is getting cold."

"I apologize, Mr. Lancret. I wasn't sure of how to reach the staircase from last night."

Mr. Lancret studied him for a second before nodding, "I figured that would be a problem. Please follow me."

The two ended walking beside one another, and a silence teetering on the edge of impolite behaviour was upon them both. Not wanting to spend his whole trip without even knowing this man in the slightest, Mark engaged Mr. Lancret in conversation.

"I couldn't help but wonder, the master of this manor. What kind of man is he?"

The image lodged in Molly's mind was of a man with considerable wealth but no particular connection to any other person, with a well kept house that lacked heart. Molly supposed that the master was an old man, without any friends or family to call his own.

Mr. Lancret seemed to weigh up his answer before answering in a well polished tone.

"My Master is a man of a healthy and intelligent mind, I have never come across one of his nature before."

"Last night you mentioned that he wasn't here."

"I did."

"Is he away on business?"

Mr. Lancret gave a fleeting look to Mark's face before he answered him, "I don't see how that pertains to you, Dr. Hooper."

Mark shrugged, "Is it unusual for a guest to ask after his host, Mr. Lancret?"

Lancret seemed to hesitate. "...I suppose not. My master is indeed away for business, which doesn't upset him. He enjoys his work, seems to be held in high esteem. However, Rose Point Manor is one of his many estates, and he doesn't hold a preference for this one in particular."

"Why on earth not? Surely he thinks it's a handsome house?"

They finally came to an exit for the jungle of hallways, at the staircase's landing. The pair headed down the steps, and as they descended Mark couldn't help but wonder if he pressed too hard on the caretaker. To his relief, Mr. Lancret responded when their feet touched the hardwood floor of the entrance.

"Keep in mind, Dr. Hooper, that all old houses have a history. This one in particular doesn't have anything akin to happiness, and because of that, Master would rather stay in any of his other residences. No doubt you've felt it already, the sense of tragedy that has seeped into the house's bones."

"I have," Mark admitted, his cheeks warming with the admission. His eyes couldn't meet Mr. Lancret as he continued on, "Do you usually care for this estate, Mr. Lancret, when… " He couldn't bring himself to finish the thought.

"When no one else is here? No, I'm the head butler at my Master's main house… I only venture to Rose Point to occasionally air it, but since you are here, I was tasked with making it presentable for visitors and caring after yourself."

Mark was considerably relieved, being alone in such a large house was a sad thought.

"I'm sorry to have caused such a fuss."

Mr. Lancret waved away the apology with his hand, already resuming the walk to the dining room.

"Think nothing of it, for it is my job after all. And I could hardly ge-" he quickly cut himself off before he corrected his speech, "wish any of the other staff in my stead, they aren't as… well trained as myself."

Warnings flashed inside of Molly's head, but Mark kept his smile in place.

"I'm glad you tend to all visitors with such consideration, Mr. Lancret."

The elderly man gratefully accepted the praise with a tilt of the head, finally leading the young man into a room that immediately smelt of fresh bread and cheese.

Mark's stomach loudly growled at the scent, joining the watering of his mouth at the sight of breakfast upon the dining room's large table.

There a plate piled high with slices of recently baked bread, wonderfully golden and crisp, which were lightly covered in butter. Next to it was bacon and eggs, steam still rising from it. And lastly there was a cup of tea and a small platter made up of fruits.

It was nothing like Mark's usual breakfast, which tended to consist of four meager slices of bread, and a pint of tea that varied from being of bad or weak taste, sometimes even both.

Eagerly, Mark crossed the room to the table and took a seat, with haste taking the fork and knife in hand and started to eat.

Mr. Lancret watched on, "I took the liberty of warming up your breakfast before I came to get you. Do you like it, Dr. Hooper?"

"Yeush!" Mark replied with his mouth full of food, causing the simple word to be jumbled around the bits of bread and bacon. A look of disgust flashed across Mr. Lancret's face, but that was quickly overtaken with a stony expression.

"I'm glad. Your luggage has already arrived, along with your…tools. Being ignorant in the field of science, I had the items left in the parlor until you could look them over."

Mark perked up, and the fork a mere inch from his mouth was stilled, "I'll do exactly that as soon as I've finished. Thank you, Mr. Lancret."

The elderly man nodded once before he left Mark to eat in peace, closing the room's door quietly behind him.

Excitement coursed through Molly's veins at the thought of being able to work once again, away from the noisy bustle of the city so she could finish some experiments. For that was the whole point of this trip.

To relax and quietly write those scientific journal articles she had been meaning to do, the ones that Mr. Stamford kept badgering after. That and the constant act of pretending to be someone she wasn't really put her through the wringer, she hated it, hated the facade that now consumed her life. So she packed what little things she had and left, only two people knew of her current whereabouts. Mr. Stamford, who welcomed the change at the promise of the articles done, and her beloved friend Meena.

* * *

 _Three days prior_

The sun was high in the sky, partly hidden by the thick grey clouds lurking about. While it was certainly warmer than it had been for the last week, the nipping wind kept thick coats upon every person that rushed along London's streets.

Even in the early morning of the day, everyone was hurrying about like ants, uncaring if they climbed upon one another. The city was in a constant state of noise, from the cry of street vendors, horses noisily neighing as they stomped down cobblestone paths with their burdens, mischievous children laughing, and the screeching sound of nearby factory whistles had everything in a buzz.

Molly was just like them, set in a panic to travel to places in a orderly time. A gentleman of high society, a Mr. D. Austin had been found dead at his residence. From what she heard, Mr. Austin was profound in his wealth and in his botany, specifically his English roses which were created from mastering years of intensive breeding.

There was no suggestions that his death was due to anything other than natural causes, as Mr. Austin was known to be in declining health. Scotland Yard on the other hand, wanted to be sure, which Molly presumed was because the person adding coin to their purses was interested.

So Molly had arrived to the morgue as soon as she received her letter, dressed in her costume as always. With her heart hammering in her ears, Molly sped down the hallways of the hospital to a section closed off to a select few. Just as she rounded a corner, a familiarly curvaceous form was standing outside the door she needed to enter.

"Meena," Molly whispered, voice still deep despite her company, "what are you doing?"

The young woman straightened herself at the inquiry, smoothing the creases of her white apron as she turned around.

"The nerve! You know not to sneak up on me like that!" she chastised, but a warm smile overtook her face. Quietly the two stepped up to one another, with Meena swiftly leaning in to run a finger along Molly's moustache.

"You've been eating with this ridiculous caterpillar on, haven't you?"

The corners to Molly's lips were pulled upwards into a smile, "I was in a hurry."

Meena snorted, "And look what good that's gotten you, there's crumbs in it."

"From the bread." Molly hummed, feeling a little embarrassed about her appearance. Though she knew she shouldn't be, not with Meena. As her best friend was the only other person to know about Molly's secret, something that she kept close to her heart.

While Molly had pushed the boundaries that limited her sex to become a doctor, something that she would surely be indefinitely jailed if anyone else ever found out, Meena had decided to stay a nurse. The thought of having a true friend so close by when she worked had Molly's chest aching with affection, the weight of her facade was lifted whenever Meena was around.

"And you never considered your sister?"

Molly rolled her eyes, wordlessly she removed the package she carried in her coat pocket. Hastily it had been wrapped in a cloth, though it was rather squashed from the journey to the hospital. Still her friend took it from her hands, and gently unwrapped the offering.

The end of a loaf was inside, still crisp from the oven, though the wind outside had taken its heat.

Meena glanced back up to Molly, "If you were a natural man, I would marry you on the spot."

"How unfortunate that I am not. And here I thought it was a poor thing. I'm sorry I couldn't fetch you anymore, Mrs. Petti was careful on the rations."

"The old hag she is." Meena mumbled under her breath, rolling the loaf back up and placing it in the pocket of her apron. "Still, thank you for remembering me." She placed a chaste kiss on Molly's check, light enough for a feather.

The door to the morgue opened up, and Sherlock Holmes cleared his throat loudly as he watched the display before him.

There had been nothing other than friendship behind the kiss, but the action of being caught had the two jolting back from one another as if they'd been burned. Molly could feel the heat of her blush on her ears, which had turned a revealing shade of pink.

"If you are quite done, Hooper, there's a body that needs your attending." Sherlock's glare moved to Meena's form, expecting her, in her scandalous position, to curtsey and scurry off. Instead Meena met his gaze with one of her own, raising her chin in proud defiance.

After a few tense seconds, Sherlock turned on his heel and descended into the bowels of the morgue, letting the heavy door slam after him.

"Good riddance." Meena sniffed, then her dark brown eyes softened when she caught sight of Molly's flustered state. She knew that her friend was fond of the detective, even with his harsh words towards her, and the fact she constantly feared her gender being exposed made it harder to bear his presence.

"Are you alright?"

Slowly Molly nodded, swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat.

"Oh dear!" Quickly Meena embraced her in a hug, arms tightening until she felt her friend finally relax. Molly sighed, soon allowing her arms to wrap around the other as she breathed in her friend's scent. Somehow, despite the tiresome hours she worked aiding the old, sick, and injured, Meena always smelt of lemons and cinnamon.

Eventually Meena pulled back, their bodies joined together by their clasped hands, "Now you pay him no mind, Dr. Hooper. He's just upset that he can't wear a moustache as attractively as you can."

Molly permitted a small giggle to escape her lips, "I'll try my hardest."

The two shared a smile before they parted ways, each had their own task to perform. While Meena walked back down the hallway filled with light and awaiting patients, Dr. Hooper descended into darkness.

* * *

 _Now_

Mark set his knife and fork down, his breakfast now devoured.

The rest of the morning wasn't as sweet as the moment shared between the two friends, something his past self couldn't predict. He had rightfully expected Sherlock's cold disposition, however he was not fully prepared for the severity of it.

Every action he performed was under question and mocked, the whole event had been a struggle to remain calm. Not even ten minutes into the autopsy Molly had wanted to run from the room sobbing, but Dr. Hooper would not do such a thing. The professional side was only enraged to the point of seething aggression, and more then once did Mark think of stabbing Sherlock with the scalpel in hand.

Recognizing this, the sympathetic Dr. Watson and Mr. Lestrade cut their observation short lest a crime unfolded before them. It was clear however, that neither would think less of Dr. Hooper for attacking Sherlock.

An annoyed Dr. Watson had to drag Sherlock from the morgue, the latter which was not satisfied with happening.

Afterwards Mark finished recording his findings on paper, inspected four more bodies before he finally retired to his modest apartment.

There he was welcomed into the arms of his room-mate Meena, and turned from proud Dr. Hooper into a woman crying from frustration, heartbreak, and the injustice she faced in this cruel world.

Comforted and given sweets that Meena had purchased from the bakery down the street, she thought of the price for peace of mind.

Together they settled that Molly needed a break from the stress of the city and after alerting Mr. Stamford, they collectively fashioned an advertisement.

One holiday needed for a doctor;

Single, quiet and tidy; searching for dwelling to spend a week or two.

Grounds to walk through preferred, as is adequate housing and staff.

Answer with discretion.

Dr. M. Hooper, 267 BIRMINGHAM ST.

That same evening they received a response from a Mr. Lancret who offered the services of the Rose Point Manor on behalf of the master of the house.

Not soon after they had packed Molly's things for the trip, and the very next day just before the sun had even thought to rise, Molly was in carriage.

There wasn't enough room for the luggage and her to share, so another carriage was sent for. Unfortunately the storm that raged morning to night throughout the journey, had delayed the arrival of her luggage until this day, a time when the rain and howling wind ceased altogether.

Which brings us to the current state of things.

A knock came from the dining room's door before it opened a minuscule amount, just enough for Mr. Lancret's face to peer inside.

It would be rather plain if his nose was not present, for it was large and hooked. It wasn't a particularly handsome feature, but it was distinct enough to be looked upon as fascinating. The rest of his face was hard, with lines from frowning deeply engraved into his leathery skin. Though none were not as rough as his eyes, a set filled with an ever present dislike that made it difficult to stare into without flinching.

"Dr. Hooper?"

"Yes?"

"Are you finished breakfasting?"

Mark nodded once before he climbed to his feet, "Yes, please take me to my luggage."

The head of Mr. Lancret disappeared, a second later the door to the dining room was swung open as the caretaker gestured for the young pathologist to follow after him.

Together they walked to the parlor where Mark looked after his possessions, and rightfully ordered them to be sent to either his chamber, or a room made up as a temporarily lab. This went on until the very last items were properly placed, a journal used for sketching and a set of thick pencils, those were moved to his dresser. By the time they were finished, the astounding truth was that the day had simply vanished.

Mark refused to have his supper anywhere but in his room, for he was still a stranger to this manor, and the thought made him fearful.

That night's solace came in the form of a wine bottle, one of the lesser from his host's expensive cellar. What guilt Molly might have felt from drinking from the alcohol most definitely worth more than what she made in a year was dissipated by the feeling of warm food in her belly, a soft bed under her back, and a fanciful novel about true love to put her to dreamless sleep.


	3. Endlessly Yours Always

The day was late in the morning when Mark approached Mr. Lancret, who was donning a coat for a trip to the local town, Bromwich.

"Sir, can you please do me a favour and drop this off at the post?"

Hands stained from ink passed two heavy letters to clean and orderly ones, the exchange was silent as Mr. Lancret observed the documents.

"267 Birmingham Street? Isn't that your place of residence?"

Mark shifted his weight, "It is."

Mr. Lancret studied him for a second, but it was enough to have Mark sweating, "I hope you aren't planning on cutting your stay short, Dr. Hooper."

Mark offered a smile to Mr. Lancret, "Not at all. It is of a personal nature. To an acquaintance that shares my longings" Mark couldn't help but offer.

There was a moment of silence before Mr. Lancret accepted this vague answer, tucking the letters into his inner coat pocket as he begun to set off.

After undoing the numerous bolts and locks upon the front door, Mr. Lancret turned to stare at his guest once more, expression troubled.

"I shan't be gone long, sir. In the meantime, however, can I trust you not to delve too deeply in the manor? If you get lost, I'm afraid I might never find you again."

His words rang out, causing something horrible to chew at the skin of Mark's belly. The young pathologist wasn't sure how to take the warning, but he had a smile ready enough for the caretaker. "Thank you for the concern, Mr. Lancret. I plan spending my time near the lab, and nowhere else."

"I wish you luck then." The elderly man nodded once before he twist the door's knob and headed out, letting the door close slowly behind him. The sound of it reminded Molly how alone she was, determined to forget the feeling, she hurriedly made her way to the lab.

* * *

The room they had decided on being fashioned for Molly, or rather Mark's work, was once an old painting room. The mother of this generation's owner loved the arts, and she particularly favoured this room for the large windows that overlooked the flowerbeds. The gardens, Mr. Lancret had said, had once been the envy of the entire county.

The Rose Point Manor in particular had placed this town on the proverbial map, but not so much as the family name behind it. That had been as ancient as the forest that surrounded the manor, successfully keeping it away from prying eyes and listening ears.

Molly stood by the windows, peering into the bleak world outside. Winter was supposed to be done with these lands, and instead everything remained icy with death.

That made staring at the damp stretch of land hard to imagine as brimming with life, no, that felt wrong even in this manor. Maybe this had been a happy place, many years ago. Now it just felt cold, inside and out.

Forbidding any more depressing thoughts, Molly turned around to survey her lab once again. Every table or chair had been stacked high with research papers, each pile seemed ready to come crashing down from its leaning arrangement.

Sighing at the work before her, Molly took a seat at the only desk in the room. This room had been rather bare when she first entered, a desk was very much needed for her line of work, so she had one carried down with Mr Lancret from one of the many rooms upstairs.

It was well taken care of, despite its obvious age. Small flowers guarded the secrets of their full fragrant blooms, remaining sheltered buds that crept along the surface of the wood. Smiling fondly at the dedication and beauty of this desk's workmanship, Molly took up the first paper closest to her, which was labelled:

 _The Proper Etiquette with the Dead_

It was her own concept and pen that flourished upon the paper, the beginning to a journal that discussed the proper conduct one must have when dealing with the parted, put in a way to preserve the dignity of the deceased.

The title was one she was proud of, though the writing underneath was certainly not finished nor ready to be published. To set it to the side for later recall, she settled on placing it in one of the many drawers to the desk.

Paper in hand, she used her other hand to pull at the largest drawer that was under the belly of the desk. It groaned in spite to her, and refused to open. Molly tugged with increasing desperation until finally she placed the paper on top of the desk and yanked as hard as she could with both hands.

The drawer giving way had her reeling as she was pushed back, almost taking her chair with her as she fell. Thankfully she adjusted her balance in time to prevent that.

"How useless!" Molly grunted, furious as she opened the drawer a tad bit more to see what precisely had given her so much trouble. She fished it out with a cross expression on her face.

Crammed inside had been a small collection of dusty letters, each held together but a thin emerald silk ribbon.

Perplexed, she undid the knot that brought the two lengths of material together, and removed the top letter. Quickly Molly cast a glance over her shoulder, frightened that Mr. Lancret would appear looming over her shoulder, expression a mixture from being distraught and angry. Surely these papers were once smooth and creamy, but now the edges had bent and were yellowing with age.

Sighing at such a loss, Molly unfolded the letter and began to read. The first thing to reach her was the scent, something that reminded her of the young fellow she pined for in her schooling. It was the feeling of being holed up with one's book, rain pelting the window outside. It was familiar and comforting, but when she breathed deeper, something captivatingly spicy arose. She couldn't place that particular scent, but it somehow went with the others.

The hand that wrote this specific letter made his words small, but endearingly rounded and messy. As if he had so much to share with such little time, the thought brought a small smile to Molly's face. She felt guilty for reading someone's intimate thoughts, but her never ceasing curiosity had her pressing on. The letter was written as follows:

April 18th

 _My dear, creative, Viola._

That had Molly blushing.

 _It is a saddening thought to have you so far away, but as you once said, 'duty comes first'. I hope in the deepest confines of my heart we meet again, even if that meant facing your brute of a husband. I know you wrote that you preferred not to mention him, as you have enough dealings with him by the day and night, but my declarations are true._

 _I hope everything has been well with your house, you never did like the simple country life, even with all of its flowers. I came across a book, and it reminded me of you, so I will spread its piece of advice along._

 _'A woman who moves without taking salt with her will have bad luck'. It will do you good to take this to heart, Viola._

 _I hope you remember your oldest friend and send me a painting to have nearby in my now monotone life._

 _Yours always,_

 _H.G._

The apparent yearning reminded Molly of herself, and an ache in her heart answered the one beckoning through these pages. Perhaps this is why she was so consumed with the desire to read the next one of this mysterious H.G.'s letters, something she made haste to peel open and read. Instead of the same messy writing she expected, Molly was presented with a new form, with pages perfumed with something distinctively expensive and potent.

This one had been carefully written, the words flowery as they joined with one another. It reminded Molly of the exotic vines she read about in strange lands across the world, places where they could snatch colourful flying birds from the sky and unsuspecting explorers from humid jungles.

April 29th

 _My ever dear & moody, Hugh._

 _I share your sentiments, it is tragic to have you across the world from me. However, do not let these base emotions cloud your work, nor any of our happy memories. My lack of closeness does not mean I am not there for you, my Hugh._

 _I do not doubt your affection for me, nor will I ever. And though I felt silly, I kept your words close to my bosom and had salt within my pocket. When changing for the evening, my maid was bewildered to discover it, and made a great big fuss over the effects it had on my clothing. I was terribly embarrassed, but my position prevented being spoken to in such a way. I am sure Cassandra would have been proud of my candid spirit, and as she liked to say, 'tongue lashing' I gave the maid._

 _You are right, I miss the excitement of the city. Though I am glad that I do not have to go to balls as frequently, I crave to do something other than stare at the same rolling fields. We are not even two days settled and I've claimed a room for painting, the first piece I've started is to be sent to you. It is of the same lands I see whenever I look out a window, you having it will make you all more closer._

 _Perhaps it is the dire circumstances we are in, but I noticed you changed the ending to how you addressed me. There was not any glimpse of the usual, 'endlessly yours always'. I am a fool to have presumed this change would not make things different, but still I crave…_

Molly squinted at the paper, specifically at the blob of ink that stained the next word, erasing its meaning. Thankfully the letter soon picked up once again.

 _Your friendship is what keeps me pink and breathing, fresh with air in my lungs and a heart pounding loud enough for the whole world to hear._

 _Your charming friend always,_

 _V-F. M_

The desire to finish reading the rest of the letters was hard to ignore, but the sound of the front door opening again had Molly quickly stuffing them into one of her journals, right in the middle. Later that night she would finish them, even with Mr. Lancret peeping around the corners.

"Dr. Hooper?" called out the familiar rasp of the caretaker.

"Yes?" Mark responded, twisting around to address the man standing by the lab's door frame.

"I dropped the letters off as you requested."

"Thank you, Mr. Lancret."

He took a step into the room, now removing an envelope from the inner part of his coat, "It appears your mindset matched another."

"Oh?"

Mark frowned as he cautiously accepted the document from Mr. Lancret, turning it over to see who it was sent by. Very few knew of where his holiday was taking place, and the thought that Sherlock Holmes had managed to discover his location was frightening. Though why he would do that was flabbergasting to Dr. Hooper.

 _He seems like the sort of man to do all of this work just to harass me_ , Mark thought with a sigh. And yet it wasn't Mr. Holmes that this letter was from, instead it was a pleasant script that had Mark smiling with affection.

Mr. Lancret who was used to a short range of emotions expressed by those he interacted with, was startled by this change in the Rose Point Manor guest. This wasn't fear, anger, disgust, greed, nor simple melancholy. This was something entirely different, and he wasn't certain as how he should perceive. So he stood by his instincts, which was to stiffly stand there until it was stated he could finally leave.

Breaking away from the letter, Mark smiled, "That will be all, Mr. Lancret."

A gush of relief escaped the old man's lips, filling the space between them until he quickly dashed from the room. Well, as much as he could with someone dedicated to remaining emotionless and exact with pride.

The letter was placed on top of the journal that hid the rest, there it would remain until it was carried up to Mark's room to be read in peace

* * *

Mycroft Holmes stood vigilante from his place before a grand window, watching as people hurried to escape the weather with little to no luck. Mycroft was glad to not be in their midst, they surely had dull and worthless lives. Unlike his, whose importance could only be conducted from the shadows. They had no idea how much they owed him.

Not unlike a certain relative of his. His younger brother would never know the depths to which he protected him, not if Mycroft had any say in it.

A knock roused his attention from the citizens on the street below, and slowly his bulky form turned around.

One of his servants stood in the door frame, or as Sherlock would call them, his underlings.

"Sir."

Heavily Mycroft breathed out, making his annoyed state obvious as he wandered back to his desk, and pulled a chair out. He made the servant wait until he sat down in his chair, at that moment he took the chance to study him.

Plain features and ready posture, he was perfect for the mindless life as a servant. Discrete, though not above gossiping surely with the other staff members, he wouldn't speak of the dealings here to anyone else. He was well trained that way.

"Yes, what is it?"

He entered the room, softly shutting the door behind him as he brought the item that had been hidden behind his back.

A small box, delicately wrapped in material that was striped black and navy blue, something that shimmered as it caught light. The servant gently placed the box on the desk, setting so it could be further inspected by Mycroft.

There he waited until his master would assault him with inquiries, he didn't have long to wait.

"You've opened it." Not a question but a certain fact.

"Yes, sir. I was instructed to open and investigate any items that were sent to this manor that appeared unusual."

Mycroft leaned back in his seat, thick fingers drumming against the wood of the desk as he eyed the gift, from the box to the beautiful silver ribbon that once wound around it.

"And how did this come across unusual? How did you determine this wasn't a personal gift for me that you destroyed to fuel your curiosity? No doubt to share the contents with the rest of the staff."

The servant politely shook his head, eyes fixated on the spot above Mycroft's head, "Any item that has a chance to enter these walls needs specific precautions fulfilled before it reaches you, at your own discretion, sir. The staff must be alerted ahead of time to any deliveries, the appearance of the items will all be listed before hand for any discrepancies. And finally, above all else, items shall be inspected for any occurring abnormalities."

"And how did this strike you odd?"

"There is no card stating where this came from, and who it was sent by, sir. Since its arrival was unannounced, a maid found it on a doorstep, we took the precaution of checking its contents outside. The inside...may I sir?"

Mycroft waved his hand, letting his expression appear bored while the gears inside his mind were spinning a mile a minute.

The servant lifted the lid, "...as you can see the contents of this box are comprised of two items: A rose, and a card."

As the servant wore his standard white gloves, he was the one to remove the items, and showcase them.

Munstead Wood, a deep velvety crimson flower that had a strong old rose fragrance with notes of blackberry, blueberry, and…

Mycroft leaned slightly in, eyes sliding shut as he inhaled...damson

"Sumptuous." he mumbled to himself, his eyes peeling open to stare at the servant.

"And the card?"

Silently the other man briefly stuck his spare hand into the box before he withdrew it, presenting the card in all its glory.

It was blank besides a small set of words, seemingly not important if a context was brought up. To Mycroft, it proved to be hindering.

 _I shall be Mr. Seek._

* * *

 _The day before_

A loud high-pitched whistle struck throughout the manor, drawn out until it left the inhabitants filled with tension. All but one, the person who whistled in the first place.

He never felt more relaxed in his life, never mind the unease set around him.

With a small huff he sat down on his chair, stretching his legs before him as his eyes slid closed. He sat there for a moment, content until something nagged at his subconscious. He was forgetting something, he could feel it. And he hated to forget things.

He opened eyes, and did a quick survey.

Manor? _Check._

Wearing only the best clothing? _Check._

Interesting jobs to do? _Check._

Security? _Check._

Everything seemed to be in order, but he could still feel it, tugging at his mind with needy hands.

A young maid poured a glass of wine, standing nearby to place it onto of his table.

" **You**."

She jolted in shock, sending wine over the brim from the glass and onto the hardwood underfoot. Just as the liquid hit the ground, already another maid was lunging at it, rag in hand to wipe up the spill before it seeped in.

The clumsy maid darted a glance to him, eyes blown up with fear, "A-are you talking to me, s-sir?"

He leaned forward, bracing his stance with his folded elbows on the table's surface as he smiled at her, "Who else would I be talking to?"

"I-"

He cut off her stuttering speech by raising a hand, "Something's off here…?"

"S-Samantha."

" _Samatha_ ," he tested the word on his tongue, swishing it around, "what an utterly mundane name. Do you know what is different today, Samantha?"

She was about to shake her head but she froze, suddenly considering. Her eyes, the colour of upturned dirt were filled with uncertainty, unable to voice her thoughts.

He smiled at her, showing his waning patience with just the right amount of teeth, "Go on."

"M-Mr. Lancret." she blurted out, clutching the fabric over her apron until her knuckles became pale.

Satisfied with the response, he leaned back, "Old Lancret, hmm? And what has he done?"

It is amazing how quickly a forgotten memory or thought can be returned to the human mind, in this case of Mr. Lancret's whereabouts.

He waved his hand again, this time signalling for everyone to leave the room. This was done quietly, and respectfully. Even poor Samantha had managed to do that correctly.

Alone with his thoughts, he recalled as much as he cared to know about the old butler's circumstance.

There had been an advertisement in the papers for a doctor, a young doctor as he remembered with a smirk. He hadn't stated the reason for a place to rent, but the sheer desperation had been obvious.

He had merely been doing his usual work when he glimpsed it, and interest was born in his belly, crawling its way up to his throat before it slithered from his lips and ordered the use of the Rose Point Manor.

Just thinking of that place made him want to spit in disgust, and he wasn't ignorant of how the help recalled the mention of it with horror. To them the house was filled with spirits, and though they weren't wrong, they hadn't fully grasped that he was one as well.

Mr. Lancret had been part of the staff before he was born, he could be trusted, so he was the natural choice. Especially around such treasured disastrous secrets.

He tapped his fingers, pondering of how the doctor was faring in the old house. Perhaps he should pay them a visit? He did have work in the area…

At the sound of the bell on his desk being rung, a servant stepped inside, ready to be ordered about.

"Pack my things, I'm going on a trip."


	4. The Doctor's Orders

Leather boots crunched the snow underfoot as they travelled through the dense forest, the owner to them observing the wildlife that had emerged after a long stretch of winter induced torment with an abundance of noise. Noise from the birds hopping from bare tree branch to the next, or rustling of leaves swaying against the nipping current of wind.

Spring was soon to step into the limelight, with her sweet call of life. Molly could not wait until this happened, she was so sick of the cold and its seize on her.

Lack of inspiration had dulled her mind, so she took to the Rose Point's forest that surrounded the estate. And much like the building itself, the forest was known to be confusing and inescapable if one delved too deeply.

Taking this into consideration, Molly had kept the building well in sight to mark her distance, and constantly checked the state of the sky over head. Despite the wind still being present, the sun was a permanent fixture that warmed Molly. Much like a child with a magnifying glass burning ants with sadistic glee; it was sad to say that Molly was the ant in this comparison.

The cruelty of it had Molly removing her coat, and draped it over her shoulders as she continued to wander the lands, journal and pencil in hand.

She was set in an undetermined path and appeared to be aimlessly wandering the snowy terrain when she spotted some flash of colour on the far side of a clearing, something that could have been easily overlooked without the assistance of a critical eye.

Molly hunched over to get a closer look as soon as she walked over to it, brow furrowed as she opened her journal to a new blank page with her pencil poised.

"Oryctolagus cuniculus...the European rabbit" mumbled Molly, eyes taking in everything to be offered.

The small creature had fallen prey to something that was larger and had sharper teeth, as was the way of the world. Though Molly sketched the complex structure of the animal's spilled innards and the natural mechanics of it, she couldn't help but feel sad.

It reminded her how life was too short and cruel, with the phantom noose that curled around her neck, pulling tighter and tighter with each passing day masquerading as something she wasn't. It was a dangerous game, one she hoped she wouldn't lose. Otherwise she was afraid she'd turn up like this rabbit, dead in some unknown field, rotting.

Her hand stilled from drawing a mangled set of lungs for a moment, releasing a melancholy sigh into the crisp air. Her stomach rumbled in response, hungry for the delicious fruit inside the manor.

Ignoring her cravings, Molly forced herself to finish her sketch before she started to make her way back.

Lifting her eyes to the sky as she walked, she studied the pale blue overhead with a soft smile. The clouds above were like sheets of fabric stitched together, something that would form the softest blanket ever known.

"What I'd give to slee-"

The words from Molly's mouth were interrupted by a startled yelp, the sound of the young pathologist tripping over something, and suddenly falling onto the snow covered ground.

"Shit" she wheezed, air knocked out of her chest from the impact. She calmed herself after a minute, trying to replace the stolen oxygen with deep steadying breaths.

Thankful that the snow cushioned her fall, she slowly lifted herself into a sitting position, glaring at the protruding object by her feet.

Lightly brushing snow from its surface had Molly's eyes widening, a lump forming in her throat at the sight of a small tombstone.

The words on the crumbling stone caused her to gasp as much as from the cold seeping into her wet clothing.

 _Here lies Lillian R., a child taken too soon_

 _1803 -1810_

Below the wording there was a small drawing of a single lily, made for the namesake of the child and her purity. Molly shakily climbed to her feet, taking a step towards her possessions lying on the ground, when a flash of pain in her left foot had her tumbling once again.

Kneeling over, Molly hissed through her clenched teeth at the lingering agony.

"Are you alright?"

Molly's head snapped up, expecting Mr. Lancret to be looming over her. But there was no sign of the elderly butler, only a woman that appeared a decade younger than herself.

Rather confused by her current circumstance, Molly quickly eyed the stranger. She was certainly handsome, with petite features that made her seem like those little fairies her grandmother would read to her about. Russet hair was held in braids thick like rope, which was pinned back for simplistic convenience.

Her modest dress was beautiful, grey with small yellow flowers, though nothing expensive. A thick wool shawl was wrapped around her shoulders, slipping down arms carrying a woven basket.

The clearing of the woman's throat brought Molly's attention to her eyes, steel blue that observed her expression with concern and barely hidden amusement.

Realizing that Mark hadn't answered her, Molly quickly made amends for that.

"I'm afraid not, I twisted my ankle. And it's too painful to walk on."

"Are you staying anywhere near?" The young woman made her way over to Mark's side, frowning as she hunched to peer at the foot Mark tried to place the least amount of weight on.

"The Rose Point Manor."

The nameless woman perked up, staring at Mark with a confused expression.

"Are you helping Mr. Lancret with the house?"

Mark shook his head, "I needed a quiet place to stay at for my work, now, do you mind helping me up? I'll need some assistance getting back."

"Not at all, Mr...?"

"Hooper." Mark grunted, surprised by the other's strength as she helped him climb to his feet, and bared a great deal of his weight. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, offering a tip lipped smile, "But feel free to call me Mark."

"Mark it is. My name is Charlotte, but Lollie will do just as well."

With Lollie's help, Mark managed a few steps before he twisted to look back.

"I'll need someone to grab those for me."

Lollie hummed her understanding, shuffling her basket in her other arm as she steadied her companion with a hand to his waist. "I'll let Mr. Lancret know as soon as we get you home" she spared one last glance to the jacket, journal, and pencil laying in the snow. The journal had opened up to the page of the rabbit drawing, already it was starting to become wet.

* * *

"Dear Lord" came Mr. Lancret's response to Mark limping through the manor's entrance.

Startled just as much as the obvious injury to the man enlisted into his care, Mr. Lancret was thoroughly surprised to see a familiar woman assisting him.

"Dr. Hooper and Ms. Charlotte, what on God's green earth has happened?"

Sighing as she shifted Mark's weight onto her shoulders, Lollie rolled her eyes, "What does it look like, Mr. Lancret? Mark has hurt himself. Now, I'd be grateful if you helped me take him to his room."

Mr. Lancret opened his mouth to readily comment on the intimate use of Mark's name, when the realization that perhaps once, aiding his guest was more important. He shut his mouth, and gave a collected and curt nod.

"We'll need to head upstairs" he grumbled, taking his place on the other side of Mark's body. The journey up to their destination was a long and tiresome one, there is only so far one can hop without taking a break. Those moments were brief, with just enough time to allow Mark to catch his breath before they continued on.

While it was a rather silent affair, Lollie praised the manor every chance she got, which was a lot. Everything from the paintings on the walls to the plushness of the cushions resting on the sofas, nothing was left unnoticed. And yet despite the constant chattering, the house seemed unnervingly quiet. Any sound briefly echoed before it was swallowed by the massive building.

Everyone was thankful when they reached the bedroom, with Mark releasing a particular loud sigh of relief as he finally sat on his bed.

Humming under her breath, Lollie fluffed the pillows around Mark before she faced the awkwardly standing butler.

"I'll keep him company while you go get help.

"Are you sure that's wi-"

"There's no time for your dawdling, Mr. Lancret." Lollie loudly interrupted, crossing the room with a frown, "This man needs a doctor! And you best be on your way."

Any attempts at protesting were ignored as Lollie ushered the elderly man out of the room, whispering something until he resigned to his fate and went back into the nearest town, Bromwich.

Mark was unnaturally quiet during the exchange, not even making suggestions on how to tend to his foot, as being a doctor himself gave him plenty knowledge on the task. He was left rather dazed with an overpowering sense of fear, and was thankful that the two seemed unaware of his lopsided hair and moustache. Coyly he adjusted the articles, hoping no one would notice, specifically that the snow had made his shirt transparent in some patches.

He prayed that his bindings hadn't been shown, and had taken one of the many blankets on his bed, and covered his chest with it. If anyone asked about it, he resolved to say he was feeling chilled from the incident outside.

Closing the door, Lollie spun around to face Mark with a grin.

"Finally we're all alone."

Mark cleared his throat, trying to sit up straighter as he addressed the young woman, "Thank you, Lollie. Do you mind if I ask a question?"

"Oh, not at all" she responded, plopping down on the edge of the bed.

"What were you doing in those woods?"

"Ah, is that all? Nothing to do with my deepest darkest secrets? Well you see, I was on my way to this manor when I came across you."

"The manor?"

"Yes, to visit Mr. Lancret. I have a gift for him." She placed the basket she still carried onto the bed, relaxing enough to let her shawl slip off as she pulled the small cloth covering the contents.

Mark leaned forward, "Jam?"

With a proud gleam in her eye, Lollie removed a jar from the basket, showing it to Mark.

"Not just any simple jam, it's made from rose hip."

"Is that common around here?"

Lollie nodded, taking in the bedroom as she said, "It's where the manor gets its name, the grounds are absolutely covered in roses. Since my father is the local doctor, Mr. Lancret allows us to collect the fruit when it ripens in autumn. Since we generally preserve it as jam, we often give Mr. Lancret a couple of jars to help with his joints." Lollie turned back to him, finally done with taking the room in.

"Now enough about me, do you mind if I ask questions about you?"

"Not at all, it's only right."

Glad to hear Mark's response, Lollie climbed to her feet and crossed the room to the dresser which was stacked high with books.

"I didn't take you for a romantic, Dr. Hooper" Lollie giggled, removing one of the novels. It was the one Molly read about true love a couple of nights ago.

Cursing himself for leaving the book out in the open, Mark heavily blushed as Lollie laughed at his expression, saying "Don't be embarrassed, I find it sweet. Not many men would admit to tender emotions, your wife must be very happy."

Looking away from the other's gaze, Mark mumbled out, "I'm not married."

"You aren't? But surely there's someone a man like you is courting?"

Ignoring the thought of Sherlock flashing wantingly, Mark forced himself to say, "No. My heart belongs to no one."

"Surely, you're jesting! You're a fine catch, anyone would be-" Lollie paused in her rummaging of the books, coming across a stack of old letters hidden in the middle of a journal.

She picked one up, something Molly had read to herself this very same morning. After gently unfolding it she read a few lines before she turned around, "What is this?"

Mark was slow to explain the origins of the bits of paper, "I found the letters in the manor, and I've been trying to piece together who they belonged to."

Lollie's eyes flickered towards the letter in her hand before she quickly strolled to Mark's side, offering it to him, "Well go on, read it."

Despite the dread burrowing itself into his stomach, Mark accepted the letter with a perplexed expression. "I'm sorry?"

Smiling in a way she hoped was comforting, Lollie reclaimed her seat on the edge of the bed, gesturing for Mark to read.

It took a few seconds, but Mark eventually did that, husky voice shaking as he spoke a loud.

May 11th

 _My dear beautiful Viola,_

 _I met a strange man two days ago, something I had completely forgotten until now. I was strolling through the gardens we spent many a nights in, when I came across a man smelling some peonies._

 _I was content to walk around him when Eloise thought to introduce us, which at the time I was rather ill at ease, but now I am glad she persuaded me._

 _He had something of a toad appearance, but his clothing were tailored and of a rich quality. The name I came to know him by was, Mr. Allardice. I later felt ashamed of my initial unsavoury view towards him, as it became apparent he was a kind man._

 _And to make things even better, Mr. Allardice is a publisher that always thirsts for a new story. Eloise mentioned that I had one stuffed away in my library, and Mr. Allardice said he would be content to read it, even more so if I wished to have it in print._

 _I am overcome with joy, Viola. That night Eloise and I dined enough to satisfy all of London. I cannot help but think your prayers helped me, my own angel._

 _Yours always,_

 _H.G._

"Do you think they lived in this house?"

Mark placed the letter to the side of the bed, "I know for a fact that Viola did. Though I'm not sure why both sets of the letters would be here, much less hidden away."

"Maybe it wasn't so much their communication that was secretive, as their relationship?"

Mark opened his mouth to comment on the idea, when the bedroom door swung open. A tall man stood in the door frame, with the same shade of red hair as Lollie, though the difference being grey peppered the sides of his. He carried a leather black bag in his hand, which immediately had Mark noticing the white medical symbol upon it.

"Father" Lollie said, immediately on her feet.

"Mark Hooper, my name is Dr. Welter. I hope my daughter wasn't pestering you." Dr. Welter said as he made his way to Mark's side, easy smile upon his lips.

"Not at all, she made sure that I never suffered a dull moment."

"She tends to do that. Now, I hear it's your foot that has been hurt?"

Mark nodded, "Yes, I believe I injured it on my way down. It's the left one."

Humming, Dr. Welter removed Mark's shoe and sock, and began to softly prob the skin. Taking note of the low whistle of misery that came from Mark as he did so, though this didn't stop him from slowly moving it around and asking of the threshold of pain. After a few moments he placed the foot back down on the bed, but not before taking a nearby pillow and putting it underneath.

"There's no cause for alarm, it's merely being twisted. It should be sore for a day or two, so I'd recommend staying off of it." He offered a small smile before he gathered his things and left, calling "Lollie" over his shoulder as he did so.

Quickly Lollie grasped Mark's hand and squeezed it, saying, "I hope we meet again under better circumstances." Her eyes lingered on his for a moment before she too collected her things and left the pathologist to rest.

And soon as the door softly clicked shut, Molly frowned. She was uncertain how to process the events that had just transpired. To calm herself, she leaned towards the small table by the bed, picking up the letter Meena had sent her.

The familiar script and scent of lemons and cinnamon that wafted off of the papers was comforting, and eagerly Molly read the letter before she drifted to sleep.

 _My beloved friend,_

 _While you packed for your trip I wrote this letter, hoping to somehow instill the bravery I know you have. I'm a selfish woman, as already I wish you weren't going, but I know how much this means to you. So I want you to know, that despite the distance between us, I will always be your most loving friend._

 _Do not worry about **him** , as we both know how he hates change. He will not hear one word about your location from me, nor anyone if I have a say in it._

 _Please use this time to enjoy yourself, and delve deeply to find whom actually you are. As I know the question is a heavy burden for you._

 _I count the days until you return to me._

 _Yours,_

 _Meena._


	5. Dreams of Yesterday

_May 24th 1858_

She was ashamed to say, but staring at Hugh's recent letter had a worm of envy crawling its way from her belly and up to her heart. There it burrowed deeply, until only terrible jealousy remained.

Letting out a shaky sigh, she folded the letter back up and grabbed the corner chair, the one angled towards the window. She dragged it to the wardrobe, using it as a stool to place the letter on top of the large wooden furniture. The chair had mere seconds to be placed back in its rightful place when the door was knocked upon.

"Come in."

Slowly it opened, "My lady, you're requested downstairs."

She rolled her eyes with a teasing smile, "Viola."

"Pardon, m'lady?"

"Viola is my Christian name, Fredrick, and I would prefer it used."

Frederick Lancret's eyes darted to the side, unsure how to proceed with such declarations. After a moment he stuttered out, "B-but your husband would be rather cross if I used such familiar terms with you..."

Viola snorted, waving the comment away. "And?"

"And... I'd prefer to keep this occupation, madame."

Humming, Viola tapped at her chin with her pointer finger as she mulled these words over. Eventually smiling at the worried butler, she compromised with, "Perhaps Mrs. Viola? Just so it isn't so stuffy with lavish titles?"

Frederick began to reply, but was quickly cut off by a maid brushing past him. The familiar ashen locks had a shiver run down the length of his back, something that always happened when he was in the same room as Penelope.

Gulping down the lump in his throat, he could barely get his legs to cooperate with him to slightly bend in a bow before he scurried away like the grim reaper was present. Only Viola paid him any attention, bemused with the sight as she turned to the maid before her.

"Yes?"

"Sir Edmund wishes to see you in the dining hall, m'lady."

"Do you have the faintest idea why, Penelope?"

"I'm afraid not," the young maid glanced to her feet, "should I inquiry the reason?"

"There's no need now, and I certainly don't want to risk making him wait any longer."

Smoothing over the peach paisley of her gown, Viola headed downstairs, maid shadowing her footsteps.

The entire manor was lively, filled to the brim with bustling bodies that had an endless amount of tasks that needed to be completed. The majority being the decoration of the building, walls were painted, rugs, furniture, clothing, and everything else you could think of were added to the contents of the house. All being supervised by Viola's mother-in-law to make sure it was in fashion, and nothing of poor taste. It had been found necessary for Viola's arrival, a new pilliar within her husband's family tree.

Personally the new wife hated it. Hated she had been forced to move in a home far from her family and friends. That even Hugh was becoming increasingly distant from her, but she couldn't help that, not after all she's done.

Breezily she stepped around the swarming mass of staff, all too aware of their disheartened expressions. Everyone had to keep busy, if Sir Edmund saw anyone sitting down for a brief second, then all of hell would break loose.

The thought of him had a chill racing down her spine, dousing her in goosebumps as she walked down the staircase to the main floor, and anxiously made her way to the room he'd be waiting in. Taking in a deep breath, she schooled her face into a soft and easy smile, an expression that was oblivious and careless. As if she didn't know of the horrors that took place in this home, a place where she was expected to live.

Penelope rushed around her, making sure she was the first to open the door and stand to the side. Viola cast her an appreciative smile, belittling the swoop in her stomach as she entered.

Across from her, at the head of the table was her spouse.

Edmund was a large man, someone who commanded fearful respect at all times. A scowl was seemingly always pressed into his expression, leaving him to have a cold disposition to everything and everyone. Dressed in shades of black, Sir Edmund mechanically chewed his breakfast as he read from a letter.

Viola paused for a moment to behold him, eyes studying his face with sheer fascination only. She couldn't deny he was attractive, nor anymore could she say he wasn't cruel. A spidery moustache was upon his stiff upper lip, hair coloured in shadows, similar to that on his head. The only thing that seemed distant of monotone was his eyes, a blue made up of summer skies and wishful thinking. It was a waste to have something so gentle on this man's face.

She made her way to her seat, on the opposite end, already her breakfast placed before her. To her surprise, it was Frederick that pulled her chair out for her, and tucked her against the wood of the table. She had expected him to remain in some dusty corner of the house, sulking somewhere that Penelope wouldn't venture.

Pitying the butler, she mumbled a soft "Thank you" with a sympathetic darting glance. She made sure to wait until he met her gaze, swallowing thickly as if he read her mind. After sharply bowing, he hurried to leave the two alone.

Her thoughts of the young man were pulled away at the sound of crumpling paper.

"You must have had important things to tend to."

Viola frowned slightly, picking up her fork. "Nothing too arduous, the day has hardly started."

"That's a relief." Edmund stabbed an egg, intensity an opposite to his emotionless expression. "I was worried that you couldn't find time for your husband." Gaze fixated on his plate, he was ignorant of the sudden paleness of his spouse.

"Of course not." Viola said gingerly, watching as the egg's yolk oozed onto the white porcelain surface. Nausea upon her, she peered down at her own meal.

Beside her bread was a baked smelt, the entirety of its body still intact. Although she favoured food from the sea, it wasn't welcomed in a moment like this.

"I'm glad to hear that. Anything else would be most unfortunate."

She set her fork down, grabbing a slice of bread to butter it. The pause in their conversation let her think of just how much her husband knew, was it possible that he found her letters? That she still kept in touch with her... with Hugh?

The thought had a shiver run along her spine. Edmund had a temper unmatched, and tended to not only get jealous easily but violently. If he ever found out about their continued correspondence... Well, she was afraid for Hugh's health.

"My love," she said pleasantly with a smile, "I cannot bear a moment too long from your presence." A falsehood, but she hoped Edmund wouldn't notice. Often he thought highly of himself, so perhaps he wouldn't question her affection too much. "After all, this time is crucial for the beginning of our family."

He gave a nod, indifferent as he reached for the paper again. Thankful to his waning attention, Viola bit into the bread, eating for the sake of appearance. Forcing it down her throat in spite of her protesting stomach. The whole time while she ate, she couldn't help but be aware of the fish's cloudy eyes staring right at her.

The knowledge made her mouth bitter with the lurking taste of bile. Leaving the fish untouched, she was all too happy for a nameless maid to lean over her shoulder and take the dish away.

Picking up her napkin, she daintily dabbed at her mouth before setting it back on the table. "May I be excused?"

Sir Edmund's hand gave a dismissive wave, preoccupied by the article.

Instantly a servant was behind her, pulling her chair back. She was unsure if it was Fredrick again, her mind was elsewhere. Making her pace comfortable, Viola exited the room and strolled down the long twisting corridor. After letting another servant pass by, and certain that no one was spying on her, she took a door that led to the gardens. The weather only a tad nippy outside, Viola didn't mind going without her shawl. Air sweetly scented with the nearby flowers, it made the churning of Viola's belly all the more worse. Taking the stone stairs down, she veered from the path leading along the property, and instead headed to the nearest bushes. Grabbing fistfuls of the vegetation, she vomited until everything she had eaten was gone from her body.

Cold from the breeze on her back, she gave a shudder before spitting one last time. Satisfied that she had gotten everything out of her system, she rightened herself. Hands now free from the bushes, she gave her gown a pat down, settling any creases.

"God permit it'll rain." Her eyes turned heavenward. Viola wished terribly that all of the illness would be washed away. Not only that in the dirt, but the sickness in her husband... in her. Torso aching, she let out a sigh.

"Viola?" Startled, she spun around to see-

Molly's eyes opened, confused by the sight of the ceiling. Why wasn't she in the garden? She sat up in her bed, mustache barely hanging onto her upper lip. Where on earth... That's precisely when it all came back to her. She was Molly Hooper, a pathologist staying at the manor for holiday not the Lady of it.

Cursing under her breath, she laid down once more. Perhaps she shouldn't read those accursed letters before bed, not if they made her imagine being another woman. Speaking of her, poor Viola. Although her dream was already slipping from her memory, she could still clearly recall the sadness in the other's life. It mirrored her own far too closely to be forgotten. To be stuck in an unhappy marriage to that vile Edmund. Molly frowned. Strange she couldn't remember hearing that name before, but surely it was written down? Squinting for a second longer at the ceiling, she forced herself to sit back up, grabbing the letter from its place by her pillow.

Scanning the letter from last night proved no mention of the man's name; alarmed, Molly threw the covers off of her, wary of her foot and the worrying soreness of her torso. Hopping to the dresser, she opened the bottom drawer, and fished the letters from their hidden place under her blouses. Returning to her bed, she propped her foot up before skimming over the messages.

But no mention of name, only that Viola possessed a 'brute' husband.

 _Then where did I pluck Sir Edmund from?_ Molly thought with a knitted brow. She didn't get long to dwell on it, distracted by the knuckle rapping on her door.

"Dr. Hooper, it is morning. I am here to assist you in dressing."

"Shit" Molly cursed, tucking the letters under her pillow. "I-it's quite alright, Mr. Lancret. I'm more than able to get ready by myself."

"Sir, with your recent injury it would be inappropriate if-"

"Mr. Lancret," Mark cut off, "I'll be dressed in a moment. Please could you.." He took a steadying breath, ridding the panic in his voice. "...See if you could find crutch or a.. a cane? That would be _far more_ helpful."

Please just leave, Molly added. Hands slick with a nervous sweat, she desperately tried to make her mustache straight again.

The butler was silent for a moment, to the point where Molly fret he'd attempt to unlock the door and make his way inside. Thankfully, he submitted with a slightly annoyed "Of course, Dr. Hooper. I'll return with one shortly."

That gave Molly the time needed to hastily limp over to the dresser, peel her old clothes off. The process was slower than she would have liked, her chest ached terribly after leaving her bindings on overnight. She rewound them, giving herself more breathing space and then slipped into some loose clothing.

Another knock at the door had her heart leaping into her throat. "Yes?" Mark called out, making sure that his wig was flat.

"I've retrieved a cane for you, sir. May I enter?"

Mark hopped over, letting the butler in. And immediately the cane was being offered into his hands. "Thank you" he mumbled, admiring the workmanship behind it. Made from hazel wood, it held a firm strength. The handle was fashioned out of brass and adorned with the images of roses. An obvious theme for the manor. He leaned his weight onto it.

"Naturally you are now mobile to walk around the estate, but someone will always be readily available in using the stairs."

"I presumed nothing less, Mr. La..." Mark blinked. "Excuse me, but did you say some _one?_ Will Lollie or Dr. Welter be joining us?"

Mr. Lancret grimaced at the casual mentioning of the doctor's daughter, "No they shan't be visiting. My Master has business a town over, and has requested that other servants be added on, he wishes your stay here to be of the highest of quality."

"I... Will I be meeting my host?"

"Not in this manor, but you have been invited to a ball he'll be attending."

"Oh no, I couldn't possibly intrude." _Honestly, what would be the point of all of this to solely gallivant around balls?_ Don't get her wrong, Molly fancied a ball here and there. She may not be asked to dance a lot, but they were pleasant enough if Meena was present. "And besides, I'm hardly in any state to dance."

"No one would fault you to refuse a lady's whims, sir. However, my Master is quite eager to at least converse with you. That requires no standing."

The pair fell silent, staring at one another. Mark slowly said, "If my gracious host wishes my support of the ball, I will gladly join. However, I don't want to offend his company with my plain garments."

Mr. Lancret smiled, verging on a smirk. Frustration rose within Mark. "Such trivial concerns have been dealt with, Dr. Hooper. My Master has already made arrangements."

God, that statement had Molly breaking out into a cold sweat.

* * *

An hour later, Mark stood alongside Mr. Lancret on a sidewalk, staring at a store's sign.

 _Emersons' Tailor Shop_

Mark swallowed down a curse, praying that the building would miraculously catch on fire. To his dismay, nothing of the sort happened. He turned to the butler, "Will a suit really be complete by the time of the ball?"

Mr. Lancret scoffed, "Mr. Emersons is a fine tailor, sir, but he is no magician. He will not be able to create a finely made suit from thin air."

Molly bit the inside of her cheek hard, nearly cursing the man out.

"My Master tends to be..." Lancret pondered over the correct word "unpredictable. He sometimes chooses to make appearances near this area, and requires fashionable attire at hand constantly. The local tailor had a suit made up already in case of one of these moments."

"I see..."

"Roughly you're around Master's size, so we're only here to make some minor adjustments. Now, are we ready to enter, sir?"

Mark gave a nod; Molly still hoped the building would erupt in flames, but now with Mr. Lancret in it.

* * *

 _Meanwhile in London_

Arms burdened with a heavy bin of linens, Meena trudged to the laundry room. She set it down with a large groan, placing a hand to her lower back. Usually days spent at the hospital were tiresome but bearable, however she found with her friend's absence the days seemed never ending. She started wishing she never encouraged Molly to go on the trip, but later felt guilty. If anyone deserved some peace and quiet, it was her. And if that meant Meena had to suffer until she got back, well, it was time she pulled her knickers up. But that didn't stop her from missing the timid girl terribly.

Miffed at her foolishness, she began her work, dumping the linens into a large tub. Taking water from the boiler, she carefully poured it inside, and then grabbed a washboard and bar of soap. Sighing as she picked up her first cloth, she scrubbed at a stain left from spilt soup. Fixated on her work, she didn't hear the door behind her opening up until it was too late.

Warm breath on her neck, Meena whirled around. Clutching the cloth as a make-shift whip, she struck out at what she reasoned was a demon straight from hell. Instead she hit Sherlock in the face with the sopping fabric.

Swearing, he stumbled back, bumping into Dr. Watson. To be fair, she wasn't too far off.

"Good heavens! How could you sneak up on a lady like that?!"

A bewildered John went to check Sherlock's face, but his hand was slapped away.

"Ms. Meena." Sherlock snarled, upon her in an instant. Mood considerably worsened than its already poor state, Sherlock towered over the nurse, face streaked with a red line.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes." Meena snapped back, resting a hand on her hip. "I won't apologize for acting in self defense. Were you raised by some ghouls? Who taught you to creep around like that!?"

Sherlock scoffed, about to say a scathing comment when the sensible John Watson intervened. After all, he wasn't in the spirit to see his stubborn friend be beaten to a pulp. He cleared his throat, eyeing how Meena tightly held onto the bar of soap.

"I'm sorry for the rude interruption, Ms. Meena, but we're looking for Dr. Hooper."

Meena's eyes slid over to him, "Dr. Hooper?"

"Yes," Sherlock spat with a sneer, "we're quite aware of how _fond_ you two are of each other."

Decidedly Meena ignored him, eyes only on the blonde doctor. "I'm afraid he isn't here, is everything alright?"

"My company was hop-"

Unable to be forgotten any longer, Sherlock stepped forward. "I won't tolerate that _moron_ in his place, so tell me where Hooper is."

Finally Meena's gaze met his, "He isn't here, that's all I can tell you." They bore into the other's eyes, mirrored expressions of dislike. Sherlock was the first to break away, favouring to lazily look the nurse's appearance over.

"Ms. Meena, you're dedicated to your work, but you've been reprimanded numerous times." He took a step closer, "Unmarried, lonely, and too fond of sweets." Meena's teeth ground together, the bastard knew how upset she was with her weight. "You spend your time frequently with Hooper to appear more intelligent than you actually are, for a sense of superiority over your fellow nurses."

"Um, Holmes.." John whispered harshly. He knew too well when war was about to break out, and going by Ms. Meena's face, it was going to be a bloody one.

"Right," Meena snorted, embracing the challenge. "If you're _so bloody intelligent_ , Mr. Holmes, then why don't you-"

"...Sherlock, we really best be leaving."

"-figure your own character out, and admit the truth."

Sherlock cocked his head, "And what would that be?"

"You're even more miserable and lonely than I am and..." She bridged the distance between them, whispering into the consulting detective's ear, "hopelessly in love with _my_ Hooper." When Meena pulled away, Sherlock was staring at her like she'd grown a second head. There was a blankness about him, that halfheartedly she became concerned that he was broken. She squashed the feeling.

"Sherlock, I think we're done here." John grabbed his friend's sleeve, dragging him away. "I'm sorry about everything, Meena." He tipped his hat towards her with his free hand. Still frowning at the detective, she nodded.

Blinking out of his stupor, Sherlock yanked himself free and brushed off his coat, shoving the metal doors open. Dr. Watson gave one last apologetic smile before he chased after the sulking man.

"Good riddance." Meena snatched the cloth from the floor, and tossed it back into the tub. Grabbing a new one, she scrubbed hard at a bed sheet, wondering how long it'd take until she committed murder.


	6. Will I Measure Up?

Mark stared at the wall directly across from him, sweat on his brow as a lanky man leaned into his personal space. He circled the pathologist, offering an occasional hum. Mark had never been more terrified. Finally the tailor took a step back, "Well" he grunted, "you're short."

Mark's lips twitched with the need to pout, "And?" It was hard for Molly to reject the sudden desire to fight this man, even if she thought she'd win.

Mr. Lancret sighed from his spot by a mannequin, "My Master isn't. New trousers will have to be made up." In response to that statement, Mr. Emersons plucked the tape measure ribbon from around his neck and checked the length of Mark's leg.

"As I thought," he said pulling away, "at least a four inch difference." Mark glanced from the tailor to Mr. Lancret, "Will it take long to get something else?"

Mr. Emersons shrugged, climbing to his feet. "It may. I'll have to check the back first. We'll worry about that later, please lift your arms, sir." Mark swallowed, but did as the man asked. His heart beat loudly in his ears, a drum that threatened to drive him mad.

While Mr. Emersons leaned in close, wrapping the ribbon around Mark's chest, the pathologist looked to the side - profusely resting his weight on his good foot. God, Molly was sweating so much. But even with the terror of her secret getting out looming right in front of her, she couldn't help but peek at the man's face. Wondering what he thought, if he'd say anything while Mr. Lancret was in the room. The ribbon was drawn tight, and the tailor mumbled out the measurement. He looked up, making their eyes meet. And in that moment Molly knew, knew that the old Mr. Emersons understood why she was filled with helpless terror. They stared at each other a second longer, and before she could interpret the meaning behind it, he was asking her to hold her hands out straight.

Still trying to compose herself, an unnerved Molly did just that. Flabbergasted at the other's lack of interest, of outrage, she silently stood there as her arms were measured. Mr. Emersons cleared his throat, now addressing the pair, "I'll make the suit up as soon as I can, but it'll be done near the ball's start. I'll have it sent with haste, gentlemen."

"Thank you Mr. Emersons, you've been a great deal of help to Dr. Hooper and my Master. We shan't forget this."

The tailor sniffed, "Think of it all in the past." He considered Mark as he said that last part, soothing his frazzled nerves. Gently Mark nodded, relieved by the generosity of the man's action. Or better yet, lack of.

"Come Dr. Hooper, we'll return to manor for rest before the festivities begin." Following after the butler, Mark gave one last appreciative glance to the tailor on the way out. Maybe if everyone was as sympathetic as this man, the night wouldn't go as terribly.

* * *

"In love?" Sherlock repeated to himself, finding his leisure reading interrupted once again by the memory of today's happening. Ms. Meena's inferior mind and its reasoning was revealed in full with that comment. Sherlock scoffed as he picked his copy of _The Count of Monte Cristo_ back up, "I'm in love with that stubborn Hooper? Ridiculous!" He read another line of text before he became distracted by the accusation again.

What a preposterous notion, that he had intimate feelings for the man in between all of his important work. Sherlock stood up, letting his book slip from his grasp and onto his chair as he grabbed his pipe from a table. Shaking his head in disbelief, he added some more tobacco before he reached inside his robe's pocket. Withdrawing a small box of matches, he struck one before he lit the top layer(of the tobacco). "Absurd," he mumbled between puffs, "absolutely absurd."

He waved the match out then tossed it onto the table; free hand casually placed into his robe pocket, Sherlock strolled over to the parlour's large windows. He exhaled, smoke slithering from his mouth as he stared out onto the street.

It wasn't that Mark Hooper wasn't an attractive man, in fact it was the opposite. Often Sherlock found himself comparing the pathologist's visage to the rest of St. Bartholomew's staff. He had pleasant enough features with a pair of handsome eyes, a tad short, but nothing too debilitating. For the most part, Sherlock could spent a great deal of time in the other man's presence, and no doubt Hooper was competent in his work. All aspects that Sherlock favoured immensely.

He thought about it longer, it was true that they tended to argue but that didn't mean Sherlock held any form of dislike. Just look at his friendship with Dr. Watson, even on amicable terms they fought constantly! Sherlock sniffed, "I couldn't be in love with Hooper, I don't have the time for it." He put the pipe's bit into his mouth, contemplating the dexterity of Hooper's hands and the countless times Sherlock had seen them in a corpse's guts. The profile of his face and the sweat on his brow when he broke a rib cage open, how beads would trail down his throat and-

Sherlock coughed loudly, chasing the smoke encircling his head away like that would somehow also clear his cloudy mind. "Ridiculous" he mumbled to himself. It was pointless considering any of Ms. Meena's opinions.

 _...hopelessly in love with my Hooper._

Sherlock pursed his lips, if anything he had more of a claim than that fickle nurse. Annoyed of the impact of that woman's words on his life, Sherlock closed his curtains, casting the parlour in darkness.

* * *

Mark sat down with a sigh at his desk, overwhelmed by the stacks of paper and journals. He leaned back in his chair, briefly closing his eyes as he contemplated where he should start. He eventually settled on the journal he started recently, as proper etiquette with corpses is of graveimportance. The introduction had already been written; Mark tapped his pen on his chin, trying to find out a way to put all his thoughts on paper. He started a new chapter, labeling it: _Crimes of Passion_ , the section would centred around victims of a violent demise.

He spent the next several hours working on his scientific journal, underlining the need for the common man to forget proprieties and to leave a corpse undisturbed for Scotland Yard. He was sure Lestrade would appreciate that commentary. Mark dropped his pen onto the desk, flexing the muscles in his cramped hand.

"Time for a break." Mark hummed, casting one last glance around the room. As he recalled, his last writing session had been delayed by the discovery of the letters. Speaking of such, Mark - rather Molly, had a theory about that. With the help of his cane, Mark walked to the entrance of the room where a wire hung by the wall. He gave it a pull, waiting a few seconds before he returned to his seat.

In a few moments Mr. Lancret entered, "Yes, sir?"

"I didn't mean to bother you, but I had a question."

Mr. Lancret straightened himself, interest piqued, "Of course, Dr. Hooper. What is the inquiry?"

"Well..." Mark looked around the lab. "I had these rolls of diagrams I wanted to store but I didn't want to clutter any corners. Do you have any furniture I can use for storage?"

Mr. Lancret's brows knit together, mulling this over. "...Any furniture...?" He mumbled to himself.

"A wardrobe, if you have one?" Mark offered.

Finally the butler said, "There isn't one downstairs, but we have several in the rooms above. I'm not sure what use they'll do, they're far too heavy to carry down to your lab. Even if we both tried lifting them."

Excitement building within, Mark attempted to diminish how outwardly happy he was with the turn of events. "Would I be able to take a look?" Unsure Mr. Lancret glanced over his shoulder, like the disapproving ghosts of the manor would be glaring over his shoulder.

"I cannot see the harm, they are in fact beautiful pieces."

Eagerly Mark nodded, standing up. "My thoughts exactly, maybe you should take me to them now?" Reluctantly Mr. Lancret relented. Leading Mark to the main staircase, he offered an elbow and helped his guest up to the second level.

As they touched the landing, Mark inquired, "Are any of the them near windows?" He was worried that he said the wrong thing, as Mr. Lancret turned his head in bewilderment. "So they're easier to see," he quickly explained, "with the lighting."

Guardedly Mr. Lancret took Mark to a door on the very end, he fished through his trouser pockets and took out a large ring with an assortment of keys. Wordlessly he flipped through them until he choose a large brass key adorned with swirling lines. He slipped it into the lock, filling the tense air with a loud clicking noise. Gripping the door handle, he opened the it. And all of the hair on Mark's arms rose on end at the rusty hinges squealing. Mr. Lancret gestured for him to go first. A stone of fear in his belly, Mark crossed the threshold.

His immediate reaction was to sneeze, there was dusty everywhere in the small room. "My Master's mother tended to have headaches, so she would often retire here."

Mark frowned as the butler walked past him, "Why pick a room so tiny?" Mr. Lancret pulled the curtains open, dousing everything in daylight.

"She was a very private and melancholy woman."

Blinking until his eyes adjusted, Mark asked, "And where are all of her things?" For the most part everything was gone, only a few odd bits of furniture remained. The fireplace took up a majority of the space, leaving barely enough of an area to fit the left behind wardrobe, chair and vanity.

"My Master was very fond of his mother, most of her possessions are in his main residence. Now do you have a good en-"

"Do you mind going to my lab?" Mark cut off with an appeasing smile, "I could use my notebook for the dimensions. The one with a green ribbon." They stared at each other until Mr. Lancret relented, restraining himself from scowling. Silently he stalked out of the room. Springing into action, Molly dragged the chair to the wardrobe as quickly as she possibly could. It was difficult with her foot and the cane, but she managed. The hard part was mounting the chair, and standing on one foot's point to blindly search the top, but she somehow did that too.

"Come one.." Molly whispered, ears straining to hear if any footsteps were approaching. Her heart stopped when she touched something, grasping it, she brought it down. A letter, worse off than the others, it was crumpled to a wad. She pressed into the side of the furniture, smoothing it out until it was semi-decent. Hurriedly she then folded it and put it in her trouser pocket.

Shoes on the floorboard echoed down the hallway. Breathing heavily, Molly got down and put everything in its place.

Mr. Lancret arrived empty-handed. "Dr. Hooper it isn't in the lab, are you certain you placed it there?"

"What? Wher-" Mark cursed, "The forest! Did no one retrieved it?" Although it wasn't expensive, it held a great deal of importance to Molly. Meena had bought it for her birthday.

"Ms. Charlotte assured me she would, perhaps she hasn't had time to simply return it?"

"Maybe." Mark couldn't help the doubt from entering his voice.

"If necessary I could always purchase a new one for you, we can discuss that at a later date. We still have to get you ready for the ball, I've received notice that your suit is complete."

"How... wonderful..."

"Indeed, my Master is quite looking forward to meeting you."

* * *

Islesbury was a bustling town, and nothing was more apparent of that than the town hall. Carriage pulling up to the building, Molly had moments to breathe in before Mr. Lancret opened the door and climbed out. Gladly Mark accepted the butler's hand. Shoes hardly hitting the cobblestone, already Mr. Lancret was brushing his shoulders free of invisible dust with a cloth.

He was wearing a dark maroon slim double-breasted suit, and as beautiful as it was, it drew attention. Something that Molly couldn't afford having.

"I look like a peacock," Mark grumbled.

Mr. Lancret sniffed loudly, glimpsing other guest's outfits as they passed by. "A fine looking one, sir. Now shall we head in? We should be meeting my Master in a reserved study, it should be plenty quiet there."

"Lovely.."

Walking together they trailed after the other's and entered the building. Everywhere you went the lights were bright and people tried to speak over one another. It was utter madness. If Molly had it her way she wouldn't even be here, she'd be back at the manor with her books. Instead she ignored the stares she inevitably got, and anxiously followed her companion through the twisting halls and past the grand room where already dancing had started. As they walked by, Molly couldn't help but get a glimpse of the happy couples. In between all of the guests and twirling dresses, Molly thought she saw Lollie standing in a corner - conversing with other young lady, but she couldn't be certain.

The longer they walked, the fainter the sound of people became. It was present, but nearly not as bad. They ultimately arrived to find a strong looking man standing in front of a door. Although dressed well, his clothes were simpler than the other guests. Nodding in familiarity at Mr. Lancret, the gentleman moved to the side to open it. Mark started to walk in then paused, "Aren't you coming?"

Mr. Lancret shook his head, "Your discussion inside is private, sir. I'll be waiting here until your return." Mark gulped, and with a coldness running through his body, he headed inside. The door softly closed behind him.

Reclining before a fireplace on a sofa was a young man reading a book of sorts. When he looked up, Molly was visibly dismayed.

"H-hello, I'm Mark Hooper."

The man stood up when Mark crossed the distance between them, and grinned when he was offered a hand. He didn't take it. Instead he tilted his head, gaze devouring the sight of the pathologist. "You wore it."

"I-I... Pardon?" Mark blinked at the deep Irish lilt.

"The suit."

"Oh, I... Yes, yes I am. T-thank you for that." _Breathe Molly breathe!_ But it was hard to do that when she noticed what he wore; a form-fitted dark grey suit. Even without the bold colour he looked incredibly dashing in it. Amused by her panicking he took another step closer, ignoring the fact that he breached her personal space as he fingered her jacket's lapel.

"It fits you rather well."

"I.." Molly - er, Mark tore his eyes from those intimating dark one's, determined to forget the warmth radiating through the fabric by that simple connection. Or how wonderful this strange man smelt, a bittersweet mixture of gun powder, apples, and pepper. Best never breathe again.

Her tormentor dropped his hand, leaving Molly to feel oddly disappointed. "Jim Moriarty," he said over his shoulder, strolling over to the sofa and plopping back down. Jim patted the seat next to him, "Come, rest from your trip. I won't bite too hard.. At first.."

Mark chewed on his bottom lip, trying to stay as physically far away as possible. He took the chair across from Jim's, nerves appeased only momentarily. Seated, Molly noticed the book Jim had been reading was her missing journal.

"I've been waiting for this chat, _Mark Hooper._ "


	7. Mr Spence & Mrs Clarke

"I-is that...?" Recovering from her surprise, immediately Molly corrected herself, lowering her pitch a few octaves. "My journal?" Mark swallowed, watching as a slow grin crawled across his proprietor's face. A chill rushed down Mark's spine, causing him to shudder.

"It is." Thoughtfully Jim eyed the book's cover, "I haven't changed the bindings." His dark eyes met Mark's, raising a brow as he said, "I would have thought you'd recognize what belonged to you." Harshly his companion bit his bottom lip, irritation tempered by confusion and an instilled polite nature. Deciding it was perhaps better not to curse at the man leasing Mark's current housing, he pointedly resolved to change tactics.

"Sir, may I?" Quietly he held out a hand, hoping his expression looked placid. Jim contemplated it for a second, taking the time to open the journal and flip through a couple of pages. Brows furrowing, Mark gradually dropped his hand into his lap.

"You know," Jim drawled as he inspected a particular sketch of Mr. Spence. A favourite at the mortuary, the corpse of a late _tosher_ \- who had lost his life and head when the tunnel he'd been working in collapsed. The drawing was one of Molly's, something she had pride in. Staring at this man, she wondered whether all of those meticulous details and hours spent were lost. "This has been very informative."

"I'm glad I could impart some education, w-was... were you fond of a particular entry?" Apparently pleased with the question, Jim crossed a leg over another, thumbing a messily jotted note.

"I'll tell you," he started, closing the journal after a moment, "how I got so much... _pleasure_ from this piece of literature." Mark's eyes darted to the book, not willing to directly look at the smirk being given. The emotion behind it was far too discerning, as if this complete stranger could see into Molly's soul, and wanted to _devour_ what he saw. She had never been the most pious woman, never attended religious rituals asides from the occasional holiday mass. However in this insistence, Molly wished she had a rosary to hold onto. She feared this devil, and the forbidden temptations it dangled before her. "If you give me something in exchange."

"Sir I.." Mark took a second to breathe, "I don't have much. I'm sure what little coin I hav-" Jim cut him off with a dismissive wave.

"Don't be obvious. What I want to know is," he abruptly bent forward, whispering "who you enjoyed most" as if they were long time conspirators.

Mark blankly blinked before catching on, "What corpse did I find the most likable...? I um..." After giving it a thought, he answered honestly. "Mr. Spence is a close second, but I'm fond of Mrs. Clarke, page twenty-two." Jim naturally opened the journal again, moving to the aforementioned page. Pasted to it was a photograph of an elderly woman, visage appearing to be sleeping. "Wolfsbane" Mark explained, incapable of meeting the other's gaze.

"And this one holds a special place in your heart?"

"I'm not sure of the best way to phrase this, but I find it reassuring. How even with the miraculous advancement of the world around us, how terrifying it all is, that simply touching a plant with an open wound can end your life. Mrs. Clarke reminds me of that... she'd be turning sixty-five this year." When Mark finally found the courage, he became breathless from the smile awaiting him. Back home in London, it was hard to find someone who was interested in what he had to say. The common gent found Mark's topics too dismal, and Meena - wonderful Meena had enough grey in her life. The only plausible person to share his interests with was Sherlock, but they were never in the same room long enough before wanting to cut the other's throat. That left only the corpses, who Molly would defensively add if ever asked, were immensely good listeners. The dead couldn't comment on her being a spinster wearing a silly moustache.

"Incredible." It was startling to see that this man earnestly meant it, and in fact held a forthright attentiveness in Mark's words. It was refreshing. "It's very disappointing."

"Sir?"

Jim shook his head, gaze off to the side in thought. "How I've met such a delightful person only now, it's off putting." His attention snapped back to Mark, "It doesn't matter. Now that we've met, I want to" he broke into another gut-wrenching grin, " _gobble up_ every thought in that curious head of yours." Mark then became alarmed when Jim stood up, crossing the space between them and balanced precariously on the armrest of the chair. Before Mark could question this man's logic, he was stunned by a warm hand being placed on his thigh. Instinctively Mark gulped, mouth dry. The touch was nothing if not gentle, but in Mark's mind it weighed a ton, pinning him in place like a butterfly for observation.

Jim casually drummed his fingers, breath blowing onto Mark's neck when he sighed. Molly wanted to squirm, unsure what to do now with this strange energy. It had been manageable moments ago, at least then there had been some space in between them. But now she feared that if she moved the slightest, those fingers would slide further up her leg. And to her shame, she found a desire to do so. It was a small idea, sincerely she hadn't the faintest clue where it came from - maybe she'd been without the company of another for far too long, but she immediately crushed it.

As if sensing her inner debate, Jim's vexing digits crept along Molly's leg to her inner thigh. Dark eyes studying her reaction, and more accurately her lack of breathing, he stopped to rub his thumb along the clothed flesh. Teasingly he offered a promise with his stare, and sooner than Molly could expect he gave her a squeeze before he moved away. "As much as I've enjoyed this conversation, it's been rather one-sided." He sat down on his own seat once more, resting his head on his hand, "Aren't you curious?"

"I..." Mol- _Mark_ , needed a second to compose himself before he could even think of responding. This man was clearly a devil, sent from the deepest pits of hell to personally torment Mark. He was sure of it.

And although the option to distract himself with an inquiry was wholly welcomed, it was a bit perplexing as to where to start. The questions he had, the ones that came promptly to mind, were intrusive. He didn't imagine finding much success in properly phrasing them, much less bringing the poor topic up. The best he could aspire to was:

 _Sir, when I ought to have been working on medical articles, I instead took the time to pilfer through your familial belongings. During one of these excursions, I came upon a series of letters in which I discovered that your late mother was having a torrid affair with another man. If you do in fact have knowledge of this, I would be inclined to learn more of the individual I know as, Hugh. Also, do you mind if I continue to read them?_ No, that didn't sound good. He then decided to step into safer grounds, although still mystifying.

"Sir, how did you come across my journal?" Yes, that was far better.

"That's it?" Jim frowned, "Of all the inquiries, that is the one you choose to ask?"

"Yes." Mark tried to not let the other's disappointment affect him too much, he had to be firm.

"Very well. It was given to me."

"I don't mean to suppose anything about your statement, sir, but is that it?" Mark's brows knitted together, "If that is the case, then do you mind me asking who gave it to you?"

"It was one of my servants, he'd come across it in a young woman's possession. You see, Dr. Hooper, things that enter Rose Point have a habit of coming back."

 _Young w_ \- Mark perked up, "Sir, was that woman named Charlotte? A Ms. Charlotte Welter?" Indifferent, the man across from Mark shrugged.

"I don't hold any knowledge of a name, I didn't find it striking, so it wasn't necessary to learn."

"H-how... it wasn't important to you?" The thought was irksome, but it became pointless when Mark realized he wouldn't be getting much more out of the subject. "Mr. Moriarty, I understand that I hardly know you, but perhaps if I became educated on your character I could fully accept this situation."

"You want to appreciate more of my nature?" Mutely, Mark nodded, unsure how this response would develop. Jim's nose crinkled, which Mark was thankful to notice wasn't directed at him, but at the surrounding room. There had been care into making it up, but it was of last year's fashion - Molly found it handsome, but chose not to say such. Disdain obvious, Jim returned his attention to Mark with a chagrin pout. "I'll tell, but not in this hideous study. We'll talk again at a later date," he climbed to his feet, movement having Mark hastily doing the same. Sauntering to where the apprehensive pathologist stood, he continued with, "then you can fully dissect me." His gaze dropped to Mark's lips, smirk spreading across his face. "I expect to witness the entirety of your skills, Dr. Hooper." Mark found himself incapable of making any comment. Satisfied Jim stepped away, saying "It was a pleasure to meet you, I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening's festivities." He gave a slight nod, and Mark took the cue.

Feet unsteady, Molly left without a backwards glance. She knew even then that he stared after her, image having her ears roaring with her heartbeat. A curious Mr. Lancret held his position by the door, opening his mouth to comment on her expression, but she hurried past him. This building's atmosphere was suffocating, but more importantly she needed some distance to think. She wasn't certain where she was, taking random turns in the hallways until she finally took the right door and made it outside.

* * *

The chill of the night was heavy, causing Molly to break out into a series of shivers. Still, she gulped down the dry air, praying it would ease the panic. She had only met one other man of that intensity, Sherlock, but he never looked as closely as Mr. Moriarty did. Never wanted to _feed_ on her like Jim. Absently she rubbed at her arms, blaming the goosebumps underneath the jacket on the cold. It was worse because a small horrid part of her wanted that, to be consumed.

"That was no man," she whispered staring into the nothingness of the sky, "he was a beast in human clothing."

"He often has that response." Words of terror caught in her throat, Molly spun around to face the person she hadn't noticed in her daze. He was tall, reasonably the same height as Sherlock. Leaning against the brick of the wall, he casually inhaled from his cigarette.

"Pardon me?"

"Moriarty" the stranger exhaled, smoke slithering from his parted lips. "He tends to get reactions like _that_ " he nodded to Mark, "from people. Especially at a first meeting." Wetting his lips, he peered at Mark, turning a notion over in his head. Coming to a conclusion, he offered his cigarette. Now Molly wasn't the keenest on smoking, it tended to give her an awful headache. But she needed to be rid of the edge. She took it, inspecting it before she rose the cigarette to her chapped lips. A first time of sorts, she inhaled far too eagerly and hence broke out into a ghastly coughing fit. Her company accordingly patted her back, solid smacks that had her reeling. He plucked his cigarette out of her hand, returning it to his mouth. After a few straying coughs, Molly peered up, eyes hazy with tears.

She had to admit that he was charming, form strong and sturdy with years of physical work. The manner in which he acted reminded her of a solider, a man who had experienced untold tragedy in battle and was calm in it's presence. The rest of his features were neat, blonde hair slicked back and his stubble cut short. The greatest hint of his status was his clothes, a suit that although well-made was plain. It didn't allude high class like the rest of the other guest's outfits, and it wasn't of a servant's quality.

"I'm sorry, I've lost my sensibility. My name is Mark Hooper." Molly held her hand out, smiling softly.

"I know." He took one last drag before he flicked his cigarette onto the ground.

"...you know?" Her stranger rolled his neck, heedlessly cracking it.

"Yes, and I'd head in shortly if I were you. Mr. Lancret is a handful when upset." He offered no other comment, just patiently waited until Molly reluctantly headed inside. She couldn't help but feel that he'd been sent to watch over her, like a guard dog making sure she didn't venture too far.

* * *

The sooner she could find Mr. Lancret the better, only then would Molly be able to leave. The thought of returning to her quiet bedroom the motivator to her pace, eyes rapidly scanning the rooms for the familiar form. Playing the quite real part of a fool, helplessly she made her way through the building. What persons she asked about her missing butler, had either apologized for a lack of acquaintance, or took in Molly's appearance with disregard. She tried to not let it get to her, she was a strange outsider from London. And what interest they could possibly have, mainly the latest fashion and drama that came from the city life, would never been fulfilled by her; she was boring.

"Mark!" At least to some. It wasn't at all a surprise to see Lollie, standing shyly with a crystal sherry glass to her chest. From the colour of the contents, and the flush to the young woman's cheeks, Molly was certain it was wine. "How unexpected to meet like this." She hooked an arm around Mark's, stealing him away to a dark corner. Gaze drifting down his body, she smiled, "You're dressed handsomely tonight." The nearby candles flickered, shadows dancing across her face.

"Thank you" Mark mumbled, still looking for the caretaker. The sound of Lollie sighing had him redirecting his attention. "Are you alright?" He received a pout in response.

"Hardly. Aren't you going to return the favour?"

"Oh, um" Not wishing to insult his company any further, Mark examined the other's attire. Her hair was knotted into a chignon, held in place with an ivory clip. While her pale daffodil gown was elegant, sleeves long and ruffled at the ends. With a white sash tied around the waist, the pattern of oak leaves were adorned. It was beautiful. "Y-you're splendid this evening."

Lollie giggled lightly, taking the other's expression as admiration instead of jealousy; Molly could never hope to own such pretty things, not with her allowance. "Mr. Hooper you are a flirt." She glanced over shoulder, elated when the hall was filled with the beginning strung of a song. Two lines of guests had started to form, signalling the start of a dance. "Do you mind?"

"I'm..." Injured foot or not, Molly had never been graceful. Often she tripped over thin air; "I'm afraid I'm not in my best condition." Lollie's face fell. Feeling awful at the sight, Mark grasped Lollie's gloved hand, reassuringly giving it a pat. "There's no need to fret, it won't be hard finding another partner."

"Are you sure you can't manage one waltz?" Mark shook his head. "Right, well I expect you to at least watch." She took a step back, "To see what you'll miss out on."

Warily Mark watched as Lollie glided across the floor, joining a line with an impish countenance. He let out a sigh, taking to leaning against a wall. His release seemed nowhere in sight, "Mr. Lancret, where are you..?"

* * *

Resting a hand on the mantle, Jim continued to stare into the fireplace as the door behind him closed. "Well?" He broke out into a frown at the lack of response, hearing only someone roughly sitting onto the sofa.

"Well?" A voice eventually said, parroting the word in a gruff tone. Exasperated, Jim spun on his heel.

"Come now, dear Sebastian. What did you think?"

The man in question leaned heavily on his seat, impassivity it's fullest as he wiped some soot from his trousers. "He can't smoke for shite."

Jim rolled his eyes, "And is that all you noticed?"

"And..." Sebastian paused, "he's a short thing, soft. Seemed in a fit over you." He crossed his arms, "Nothing unusual with that."

"No... no, right you are." He reached a hand out to the mantle, drumming his fingers on the marble. Tonight had been refreshing, Mark Hooper was far more interesting then he let on. A smirk pulled on Jim's lips, recalling the pathologist's mixed emotions. But he wasn't here for that, Hooper had been a dessert - one he had yet to properly savor. And he planned on doing exactly that, but work had to be completed first. "And our guest, how is he?"

"Paid his debts off, but not his sins. Which reminds me, your bloke said a comment."

Jim's brows knitted together, "Who?"

"Hooper." The drumming stopped. Sebastian took the interlude to say, "He considers you a beast rather than a man." Jim broke out into a dark chuckle, stuffing his hands into his trousers.

"...He isn't wrong."

* * *

Grumbling Mark climbed into a carriage, thankful to be at last leaving for the manor. Mr. Lancret followed him in, silent as he closed the door. He hadn't made any inquiries about Mark's meeting, or had given an explanation as to where he went, only stiff apologizes. It led Mark to the conclusion to let it go, that maybe the mystery of the ball would be staying with the building. It was wishful thinking, as he would learn in the coming days.

Tired with the irrational events, Mark stared out of the carriage's window, looking after the town hall as they moved down the road. The wind howled in the distance, shrieks lulling Mark into a fevered sleep.

* * *

 **Notes:**

 _Tosher:_ a person who would sift through raw sewage for any valuables that would have fallen down a drain. Highly dangerous - tunnels crumbled, fumes, rats, etc., it became illegal after 1840 for people to access the sewers without permission. Toshers typically got past this by working late at night and through the early morning.


End file.
